Lock moved through the narrow streets of Trost, his pace steady, his eyes locked on a single figure in the distance.
Grisha Yeager.
He kept a measured distance—close enough not to lose him, far enough to avoid suspicion. Around seventy meters. That was the sweet spot.
Grisha's gait was faster than usual, tense and deliberate. He looked back from time to time, scanning every corner, every shadow. The caution in his movements only confirmed Lock's suspicion.
He was about to act.
Lock's expression remained unreadable, but inside, thoughts churned like a storm.
So it's finally time, huh?
The streets thinned out as they moved further from the district's center. Cobblestone gave way to packed dirt, and scattered houses to wide patches of farmland. A cold breeze drifted through the trees, carrying the faint scent of soil and smoke.
Grisha's figure pressed on, unwavering.
You must be torn apart right now, Lock thought, his eyes narrowing. On one side, your family—Carla, Eren, the life you built inside these walls. On the other hand, the promise you made to the Restorationists. To your fallen comrades. The dream of Eldia's freedom.
He sighed quietly.
If he were in Grisha's place, what would he choose?
Probably the same.
It wasn't about ambition or obsession. It was inevitable.
The moment Grisha inherited the Attack Titan, his future had already been written in someone else's memories.
The Attack Titan—unlike the Armored or the Colossal—had no shell, no fire, no overwhelming mass. What it held instead was will. The unyielding drive to defy fate. The embodiment of freedom.
It was said that every inheritor could peer through the paths of memory—into the lives of those who came before and even glimpse those yet to come.
Perhaps that was why Grisha seemed so desperate. So afraid. So resolved.
He had already seen what must happen.
And he had no choice but to walk this path.
Lock's steps slowed slightly as his gaze followed the man's back.
I wonder… will I appear in that future you saw, Grisha? Will you see me standing beside you—or against you?
After nearly an hour, the trees thinned, revealing a small, abandoned chapel at the end of a dirt road. Its walls were cracked, ivy creeping along its stonework. The wooden doors hung slightly open, swaying in the wind.
Lock's pulse quickened.
So this is it… the Reiss family's chapel.
He crouched low among the bushes, his eyes following Grisha as the man approached the entrance. Grisha hesitated for a moment, glancing around. Then he slipped inside.
No guards, Lock thought. Either they're confident no one knows, or they've grown far too complacent.
He clenched his jaw. Over a century of false peace had turned the rulers of the Walls into fragile custodians—blind to everything but their own illusion of order. The Reiss family, with all their divine pretense, had long abandoned the spirit of humanity's survival.
They hid behind a vow of pacifism, convincing themselves it was mercy. But to Lock, it was cowardice dressed as virtue.
If they truly cared for peace, they could have done so without chains.
If they truly sought salvation, they wouldn't have erased their own memories.
Pathetic, he thought. But still useful.
He edged closer, silent as a shadow, until the chapel's cracked doorway was just a few feet ahead. Peering through a narrow gap, he saw Grisha move toward the altar, crouch, and lift a loose floorboard. Beneath it lay a staircase descending into darkness.
A hidden passage.
Lock's pulse steadied.
There it is.
He exhaled slowly and stepped into the doorway, his voice calm but firm.
"Uncle… are you sure you want to go in?"
The echo of his words cut through the silence like a blade.
Grisha froze. His eyes widened as he spun around, disbelief washing over his face.
"L–Lock? What are you doing here?"
Lock tilted his head slightly, expression calm. "Following you, of course. You've been acting strange lately."
He pointed toward the dark passage below the altar.
"This leads to the Founding Titan, doesn't it? To the true rulers of the Walls."
Grisha's mouth fell open. "How… how do you know that?"
Panic flickered behind his glasses. His mind reeled—this wasn't part of the future he remembered. Lock wasn't supposed to be here.
He wasn't supposed to exist in this moment.
"I—" Grisha began, but before he could finish, Lock closed the distance and struck sharply at the side of his neck.
Grisha's body went limp.
Lock caught him before he hit the floor and sighed.
"Sorry," he murmured. "This isn't the right place for a conversation."
He shut the floor panel gently, ensuring no trace of disturbance remained. Then he carried Grisha out of the chapel and vanished into the forest's shadows.
The trees thickened as he went deeper, until he reached a small clearing hidden from sight. Lying Grisha down against a moss-covered trunk, Lock sat a few feet away and waited.
His mind raced with possibilities.
He had no intention of killing Grisha—far from it. The man was crucial to the flow of history. But perhaps history didn't need to unfold exactly as before.
Maybe there was still a path where Eren didn't have to bear that same cursed burden.
Ten long minutes passed before Grisha stirred. His eyes fluttered open, confusion mixing with fear.
"…Lock?"
"You're awake." Lock leaned forward slightly. "Don't move too much. I just needed your attention."
Grisha tried to sit up, but Lock's calm gaze froze him in place.
"What do you want from me?"
"To talk."
Grisha frowned. "About what?"
"The truth," Lock replied. "About what you're planning to do… and what comes after."
Grisha's breath hitched. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
The silence between them thickened. Wind rustled through the leaves overhead.
Finally, Grisha spoke, voice low and shaking.
"The Reiss family holds the Founding Titan's power. It's been passed down through generations. They've kept humanity within these walls for over a century under a vow of peace."
He paused, gripping his knees tightly. "But peace built on ignorance isn't peace. My people—our people—were driven into these cages and made to forget who they are. I can't stand by and watch that continue."
Lock nodded slowly. "So you intend to steal the Founding Titan."
"Yes."
"You know what that means, right? Once you do it, you'll destroy everything you've built here. Carla, Eren—they'll lose you."
Grisha's eyes trembled. "I know."
"Then why still go?"
"Because… someone has to," Grisha said softly, almost pleadingly. "If I don't, no one will. The future depends on it."
Lock's gaze softened for the first time. "You've seen it, haven't you? The future."
Grisha froze. "…What did you say?"
"The Attack Titan's power," Lock continued. "It lets you see memories across time. You've already seen the moment you'll face the Reiss family. The moment you'll hand everything to Eren."
Grisha's lips trembled. "How—how do you know all this?"
Lock's expression darkened, though his tone stayed even.
"Let's just say I've seen pieces of that same path. And I don't intend to let history repeat itself blindly."
He stood, glancing toward the chapel barely visible through the trees.
"If you go there now, you'll slaughter them all—except Rod Reiss. And afterward, you'll give your power to your son. Eren will inherit not just the Titan, but your grief. Your guilt. Your endless war."
Grisha's hands trembled as he stared up at him. "Then what should I do?"
Lock's eyes hardened. "That's what I'm here to find out."
The two stood in silence, one man carrying the burden of destiny, the other standing at the edge of defying it.
Somewhere far beyond the forest, the faint bell of the chapel tolled—its echo fading into the wind, like a warning of the storm yet to come.
Lock glanced back toward the path.
Time's running out.
He knelt beside Grisha once more. "Uncle… whatever happens next, remember this. The world outside these walls isn't gone. And neither is the truth."
Grisha met his eyes, uncertainty and hope flickering in the same glance.
Lock stood, the faintest glimmer of resolve crossing his features.
"The future doesn't have to be written in blood," he said quietly. "Not this time."
The forest wind swept through, carrying away his words like a whisper—one that might never reach anyone, yet still changed everything that followed.
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